Coexistence
by chromeknickers
Summary: She convinces herself that it is lust, not love, that draws her to him. He is Fire Nation and she is Water Tribe; they are never meant to be. AU Zutara.
1. Katara

_Coexistence (n.): to live in peace with another despite differences, especially as a matter of politics, nationality, social customs, and ideology._

* * *

He's lean and wiry beside her in bed, and she would run her fingers over the ridges of muscle and bone if she wasn't so distracted by the worried look etched across his face. His lips are set in a hard, thin line, and she listens to him breathe shallowly in his sleep. His black hair is a mess across his forehead and his closed eyes are tight and restless, flickering dangerously beneath the thinly veiled lids. In the dark his scar is barely noticeable, but the puckered pink flesh seems to spasm as he slumbers; even in his dreams peace eludes him.

She finds herself wondering what kind of monsters haunt his nightmares—his father, his sister, his mother? Even though she's spent every night in his bed for the last eight months, she knows precious little about him, and sometimes it scares her but mostly she accepts it for what it is—accepts him for _who he is_. She shouldn't care for him and she certainly shouldn't trust him, but she has no one else. He has become her entire world, and her desire to know more about his past is outweighed by this new and marrow-deep need to coexist with him. Really it's quite a bit more than just coexistence at this point (_co-dependency almost_), but it's messy and the boundaries are sketchy and she has no better word for it—or at least she doesn't want to admit to what it truly is.

The line of his pelvis is sharp where the sheets pool around him and she follows his contours with her fingertips, delighting in the wave of shivers that arc beneath his skin. Still he does not stir, and she frowns. She can't decide if she's relieved or disappointed by it; lying awake at night is less distressing with company, and maybe if she were otherwise occupied she wouldn't be pondering over the gravity of her situation and what it is that she's got herself into—sleeping with the enemy. Her father must be rolling over in his grave.

In fact her family is the reason she's here to begin with. No, wait—scratch that—_his_ family is the reason why she's here; why she's alone with no one to depend on but him. Sometimes it makes her sick, lying awake at night thinking about the state of the world. The Avatar has still not surfaced and Fire Lord Ozai has taken over most of the Earth Kingdom with the aid of Sozin's Comet almost four years ago. Her father had died in that epic battle and her brother had taken off to the north-east just a year ago, gathering with the rest of the Water Tribe forces and what remains of the Earth Kingdom army, leaving her behind.

It wasn't until her eighteenth birthday that she had met the banished prince. He was looking for a guide to the South Pole, and she was looking for a way out. Neither had intended for their relationship to progress beyond that and neither had fought the inevitable when it had. He had not forced her, and she had not thrown herself at him. The reciprocity was mutual; it had become a relationship of convenience. It still is.

It isn't like he's her soul mate; she can barely stand him at times. He can be oppressive, malicious, and downright pompous, but underneath those layers of arrogance and corruption is a man possessed of a deep sense of honour. She can't fathom why the conflict of nobility and darkness inside him makes her worry, especially when he's made her feel more alive these past few months than anything or anyone. She convinces herself that it is lust, not love, that draws her to him. He is Fire Nation and she is Water Tribe; they are never meant to be. No, he is merely her one and only chance to save her brother and find the Avatar; he is a means to an end.

"Bad dreams?" His raspy voice in her ear causes her to jump, and she bunches her fists underneath her chin.

"I'm fine," she whispers, her breath hot on his neck.

It's a lie, and he knows it.

"Mhm." His strong arms suddenly snake around her waist and pull her in close. "We'll find your brother," he murmurs into her hairline, and takes a deep breath. "I promise."

She pushes away and rolls over onto her side, her back curving into his chest. He sleepily nuzzles his chin into her hair before shaping her body against his. It's a simple gesture, heart-warming and sweet. With her cheek braced against closed palms she tries to shift away, but he only pulls her in closer. Her bottom lip trembles and her eyes threaten to water. His simple act of kindness has no business making her eyes tear up at the corners; his arms wrapped snugly around her waist have no right making her feel so safe and secure.

"Prince Zuko!" Lieutenant Jee calls loudly from outside the door, shattering the moment. "We need you up on deck, sir!"

Zuko mutters unintelligibly into her hair, fully roused from his fitful slumber—the tell-tale evidence jabbing at her lower back. At first he appears confused, still being drawn out of the treacle grasps of sleep, but then his instincts kick in and he quickly disentangles himself from her body and stands to his feet. She can see the outline of his naked form at the foot of the bed and she faintly wonders if he will eschew his clothes entirely and just run up on deck. Instead he fumbles for a tunic and a pair of trousers, dons them swiftly, and walks steadily to the door, following the sounds of the crew and the cracks of lightning from above.

The spirits only know what's going on outside. From what she can gather is that it's raining, but it isn't a storm to cause worry, and the likelihood of them being attacked by Fire Nation or Water Tribe is just as doubtful. It could be a distress call; sometimes Zuko answers them, but they have been few and far between these days. The Fire Nation owns the seas, just like everything else.

She pushes herself up into a sitting position and waits—waits and listens. She can leave any time she likes; she's not his prisoner. She's kept her Waterbending a secret, and she's trained herself to become quite good at the art, though the need for a master is apparent. Still, there's no way Zuko could possibly stop her at sea; she could leave. But she's not waiting for the opportunity to escape; she's waiting for him to return. She tells herself that she's with him because he'll help her find her brother and—who knows—maybe he will find the Avatar. But what then? Can she make her brother come with them, board a Fire Nation ship and make peace with an enemy prince who beds his sister every night? Can she handle that kind of shame? And what if her brother isn't even—

She banishes the soul-annihilating thought before it can fully formulate in her mind. She doesn't want to think about the what-ifs and the most-likelys because even if she finds her brother and he joins them and Zuko somehow finds the Avatar, what can she do? Zuko will take the world's last hope to his father and bargain for his honour. And then what will happen to her? On this ship she can be his mistress, his not-so-dirty secret, but she isn't about to become a spoil of war to be paraded around the Fire Nation palace. She would kill herself before that ever happened. But what if she already is a war trophy, some stupid conquest?

Sometimes she just wants to throw herself down on the floor, beat at it with her fists, and cry. If there's no one and no hope left, why continue, why struggle against the inevitable? Why not purge herself of all emotions and just let go?

There's nothing left to worry about she tells herself, but people aren't things and she can't force them from her mind no matter how hard she tries, no matter how much it hurts. The problem is that it hurts too much; it bothers her and worries at her stomach in the middle of the night. What does her family think of her in the spirit world? Are they ashamed? Disappointed? Is she with Prince Zuko because she has no hope or because hope is all she has left?

She has so few misgivings about building her life around him now that it frightens her, sneaking up on her when she least expects it. In the dead of night she'll wake up in a cold sweat and reach out for him. Deep down, she wants him to push her away, to berate her, but more often than not he takes her into his arms and soothes her, holding her gently until her tremors dissipate. Those are the times that she's not thinking about how this is all a game or who's using who but how they need each other—how they rely on one another.

She's long past all that crisis of conscience nonsense; she's chosen him and this life that they live together. But choosing him is not what worries her. She knows that deep down he is an honourable man who has the potential to be a _great_ man, but he doesn't see the world the way she does. He does not see how the Fire Nation destroys as it consumes. He looks for the Avatar not to bring balance to the world but to restore his honour—honour that he still maintains must be given, not earned. And she—she enables him. But is her fear about losing herself to this man worse than losing the morals she's lived by her entire life?

The bedroom door creaks open and Zuko is standing in the backlit doorway, dripping wet with rain and the spirits only know what else. The light from the hallway illuminates his face; he has the look of a man broken, lost and found, driven and hopeless all in the same breath. Once the deer-in-headlights look has left Katara's face she's up out of bed, pushing the door shut and pulling off his clothes until he's bare and dry again. His presence alone, having his body in her arms in the darkness, feels like aloe over sunburn; his long-fingered hands push her flimsy tunic up over her head, lips press open-mouthed kisses to the back of her neck.

His palms lower to her hips, and he traces her body with fingertips that skim along the low dip at her back. His hair is loose and wet and falls around his face, woven through by her slender fingers that hold him still against her throat. His kisses are long and languid, burning her very flesh, and she moans for more. From there it's all a tangle of hands and searing kisses until gravity takes hold and pulls them close, setting their world on fire. Heat rises between them, licks at their skin, and spreads its sweet torture beneath this slow-burning haze.

She's impatient for more, but he catches her wrists and brings her palms to his chest while his rest on her hips. His body presses against hers, thrumming with life, and she wonders if he will pin her up against the wall and take her right there or on the floor, rutting like two wild animals. But he kisses her instead, long and thorough and sweet, leading her back towards the bed. He will love her soft and slow and kiss her until her breath comes short and ragged—until both their pulses beat rapid and staccato, and they beg for release. And as he eases her back onto the mattress, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along her throat and the hinge of her jaw, she sighs into his hair and thinks that maybe _he_ is the only real thing left in her life.

He presses into her, bodies flushed and heartbeats shared-warm, and they make love. It's not the raw heat they often share but a passion that is burning and lingering—emotional. They pour their hearts out into the act—an act that is no longer a perfunctory ritual but a shared experience. It is a dance that only they know the steps for, a song that only they know the lyrics to, and when they finish throwing themselves into each other—their doubts, their pains, their frustrations—he wraps her up in the blankets and in his arms. They quickly fall asleep this way, touching foreheads, and for the moment it soothes away the terrible guilt that hides behind her heart.

**-x-**

* * *

**Author's notes:** This was written for an AtLA AU challenge, which is why this piece isn't as lyrical as it could be. It has a bit of a stream of consciousness feel to it because Katara's thoughts are jumbled and erratic, jumping all over the place, much like my own ninety-eight percent of the time. Part II will be taken from the same timeline, except from Zuko's PoV.

I'd like to thank Masayume85 for going over this chapter for me. Merci, mon ami. ^_^


	2. Zuko

_Coexistence (n.): to live in peace with another despite differences, especially as a matter of politics, nationality, social customs, and ideology._

* * *

She's stealing things he'll never get back.

Her presence has become as much a comfort to him as it is immense pressure weighing on his chest; she is his breath while he's left gasping, his strength when he cannot stand. But she is slowly destroying his resolve just like he is surely wilting her resistance. She has become his captive bird singing in her cage for freedom, and he is wilfully deaf to her mournful cries.

The sound of his men calling out to him, waiting for his orders, he is not deaf to. They have called him up on desk, asking what they are to do about the Water Tribe warrior and his paltry crew. The voice of the warrior is somehow both booming and shrill, carrying over the ocean like ephemeral music in his head, and though the song's different, it's always the same—

_"Give me back my sister!"_

Images of Katara suddenly curl around his thoughts, like drops of blood bursting in delicate red tendrils through water. This warrior only sees his sister as Zuko's captive. No words can convince him otherwise for he is his own man—a man who only sees an enemy.

_"This is what your sister wants."_

_"Lies! If this is what she wants, she would be up here with you. She would be asking me herself!"_

_"And what would your answer be? Will you join us in finding the Avatar?"_

_"Never! The Avatar's dead. And even—and even if he were alive, you'd just use him like you're using my sister. Give her back to me!"_

_"She is not yours to take."_

_"And she's not yours to keep! You'll ruin her! You'll ruin her like everything else you and your family touch. You are a poison, a pox on this world! You'll never make her love you!"_

That had been the end of it: a shouting match. But Zuko knew the brother would be back again and again for his sister. He would never give up. Neither would Zuko.

He orders his men to let the other ship pass. A storm is fast-approaching, and he watches as the warrior directs his boat inland to take cover from the gale. As his men obediently stay the course, he makes his way below decks and loiters in the hallway.

His face is wet and pale and he touches his left cheek, the puckered flesh of a wound covering a scar far too deep to be seen. The Water Tribe girl will never love him the way he wants her to, will never truly accept him for who he is. And though he should tell her about her brother, he can't. He cannot bring himself to let her go, but he cannot let her lose hope either. The Avatar has become their albatross, and he will not fire at it from the bow.

"Prince Zuko." Zuko turns to face Lieutenant Jee, who hands him a thin black canister. "A Messenger Hawk just delivered this."

Zuko dismisses the lieutenant with a casual wave and turns towards the light. Hesitantly, he pops off the top and turns the canister upside down, allowing the scroll to spill out onto his palm. Breaking the seal, he begins to unfurl the parchment and reads:

_The Grand Master, General Iroh, has escaped from his brother's prison and is currently gathering forces with the White Lotus and the remaining Earth Kingdom army to wage war against Fire Lord Ozai. _

No date, no signature, no message other than general information.

Is this a test?

Will he be asked to choose a side?

He curls the scroll in his fist. His uncle has always been there for him, sacrificed his own freedom to save him, but can Zuko make that same sacrifice? He has seen first-hand what this war has done to the world and its people, but is it his place to go up against his father, his nation? If he does find the Avatar, what will he do? What is the honourable course of action? Hand him over to his father or hand him over to his uncle? He doesn't know anymore. Maybe he never did.

What he does know is that he will always keep searching, even though what he's looking for is beyond his comprehension. But no matter how confused he gets or what side he chooses, he knows his salvation will be found when he locates the Avatar—because _he_ is Zuko's last hope, and Katara's.

The months he's spent together with her seem much longer than what's real, and he has begun to question what she means to him. The few hours a day they spend apart seem to stretch out, jarring like shards of glass beneath his feet. Even in his waking thoughts he is consumed by her and finds himself searching her out. It's odd how alike they've become, so co-dependent, even to the point where he cannot imagine time continuing on without her. She's left an ache in parts of him he hadn't even known were empty, and he worries that when she truly does leave him it will be his end. She will dissolve back into the blood and water of his dreams, and maybe it's safer that way. Safer, but empty. Incomplete.

He sighs, dropping his shoulders forward. His armour weighs heavy on his body, and he painstakingly begins to discard it as he makes the short trek to his room. She will be waiting up for him, and all he wants to do is get lost in her eyes and hold her close.

His fingers hesitate on the handle for only a moment before he opens the door. She's lying in bed, facing him, and her eyes widen in surprise. He can feel the water dripping down his neck and he takes in a shuddering breath. She looks confused, almost frightened at first, and then she stands. He stares after her brisk steps across the room, and his eyes catch the gentle sway of her slender hips and the long, silky stretch of umber-tanned legs peeking out beneath the hem of her nightdress. All he can think of is how the jut of her pelvic bones fit perfectly against his palms and how wonderfully her body moulds against him.

She's already undressing him, and too suddenly his world narrows to her lips caught between her teeth in concentration. She tosses an errant lock of chestnut hair behind her shoulder and it seems far more inappropriate than it has right to be. He pushes his hands through her tumble of curls and holds a kiss to her throat. She laughs softly, and he can feel the smile on her lips press against his cheek. He dips his face into the curve where her neck meets her shoulder and breathes in the lavender she wears at the spot just behind her ear. He wants to pretend that she is his reality. He wants to get lost in her, to live in a world where only the two of them exist. He wants more than what is safe to pursue.

His lips trace the staves her tendons raise beneath the skin and he grins against her throat as she arches her back and softly cries out his name. She often tells him that he's like a musician, better suited for listless languid art than war. He plays her like a violin, all deft and gentle fingers on her strings, but he'd rather play to her audience of one. She is the only one he trusts to keep his secrets, spun like the music in his breath playing against her ear.

They retreat towards the bed, but unlike all the other times their visit is as slow and unhurried as the beginning was a frenzy of nerves. He'd stop to admire every last detail of her body, commit it all to memory all over again for pure pleasure this time around, if he weren't so preoccupied. Instead he is consumed by the act—the feel of her lips against his ear and her warm breath against his neck. It's electrifying.

He lowers her onto the mattress and his fingers tangle with hers. Her hair tumbles down onto the pillow, and he braces his hand against her cheek. It would almost feel like a dream if it didn't already seem so familiar. Déjà vu is a better term for it. Hasn't she fallen into his arms, into his bed many times before?

"Zuko," she breathes his name, infusing the kiss with her smile.

Her nose nudges his and for just a single split second he thinks he could get used to the messy, ragged-edges love she is leaving on his heart. He could stay here on the sea forever because it is where she is, where they exist together. Katara, all of her, every inch of her body tangible and real in his hands—could there be anything better? No notion of honour or nation or family—only her.

Bodies entwining, his hands explore every inch of her while his mind feebly screams danger, telling him to pull back from the edge before he falls for her completely; but it's too late. The very feel of her, the arches and curves and soft lines of her flesh against his, wrench him back to the truth. She is solid where the rest of his world is malleable, and she is the only real thing left worth holding onto.

**-x-**

The next morning he awakes early, and despite the dreamless night there's a heavy rush of adrenaline singing in his veins. He turns to see her lying beside him on the bed, and he reaches over to touch her, running his fingers over her skin just to be sure she's real. The brush of skin on skin sets his every nerve alight and he needs a double-take, again, just to be sure. Her cheek is pillowed against his shoulder and her arm is draped across his chest; his fingers tangled with hers seem far too delicate, far too intimate a gesture for a man like him to wake up to. He lets go. He has fallen for her completely, hopelessly, and he's not sure what to do.

_"You'll ruin her! You'll ruin her like everything else you and your family touch—"_

He'll never admit it, but sometimes he feels like running. But this is his bed and his ship and his arms that he can't seem to unfasten from her body. The black monster growling in his stomach says to hell with it; she's chosen him this way and if he falls, she's falling with him. She's made her choice, so be it—for better or for worse.

_How long are you going to keep her captive before she realises that her love for you isn't real? When are you going to stop pretending that this can work?_

When he thinks of pushing her away he can't. The thought literally makes his heart ache, and if he were to manage to release himself from her, it may just condemn him all the same. There is no answer that will not end in wreckage for them both.

She murmurs in her sleep, soft sounds against his skin that make him pull her close as if he could protect her from the dangers of this world—from himself. He's been jealous all his life of people blessed with her kind of devotion, and now that he's found his own wretched self blessed by her, he doesn't know how to accept it.

_You've taken everything away from her—her home, her family. What can you do to make it right? Apologise? Find the Avatar? Then what, you idiot? Then what?_

His chest presses up flush against her back, and her fingers somehow find their way back to his, lazily entwining. In the end it's the warm skin-on-skin feel of her, her gentle sighs and the way she whispers his name in her sleep, that make him realise how much he needs her. Without knowing how or why, she has come to mean everything to him. Once a man only able to see the past, he can now look forward to the future and her in it; for he cannot imagine living in a world without her. And as long as she is his there is very little else in this world worthy enough to occupy his mind or his heart ever again.

**-x-**

* * *

**Author's notes: **So ends _Coexistence_—I hope you enjoyed it. ^_^


End file.
